


Dangerously Lonely

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Violence, Dean Winchester Gets Therapy, Dean Winchester Has Nightmares, Dean Winchester Needs Therapy, Drowning, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Minor Castiel/Dean Winchester, Nightmares, References to Canon, Season/Series 14, Some Humor, Therapy, possible tw, post-Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 13:32:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17426819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “Oooh, okay, I’m with you.” He takes in the woman’s petite, but busty stature underneath that blonde, Rapunzel-like hair that so modestly covers where her black open V-neck doesn’t, and grins as he extends his arms. “I knew you’d come through for my birthday, Sammy. Gotta say, it’s a little early, but I appreciate the enthusiasm. So, what’s the play? She’s gonna find my room, tie me to my bed, sit down, and undress in front of me? Ask me how it makes me f—”“Dean,” Sam growls. “She’s a clinical therapist at Lawrence City Hospital—a real therapist.”





	Dangerously Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again. I know it's been a little while again. At least to me it has. I've been away dealing with personal issues including general lack of motivation and being stuck in a dryspell after the last fic--and just some generally bad stuff. But alas -- here I am, back with another banger! (Maybe? Please love me. XD)

Using Dean’s scalp as a _Thelma and Louise­-_ style jumping point and the curve of his spine as a highway, the droplets from the scorching shower race each other to the mat. He tips his head back with a groan and lets the loud patter lull his mind into a vegetative state. The little water engines adjust their target to accommodate the off-roading—ricocheting off his mountainous pectorals and down the steep landslide between them. Some form a pool falling into the shallow pothole above his taut abdomen; others make it far enough to choose which ramp to exit.

Meanwhile, Dean’s mind still can’t find the finish line—some conclusion to these fragmentary, but sharp-cutting thoughts. It’s like Michael’s still holding the reins, reminding him he’s there every so often with the random clatter of hooves. 

_It starts innocent. Water, just like this. Light, warm, inviting—and welcome against the dark, empty backdrop and his relentless, full-body shiver. His sigh of relief never makes it to his lips. It’s drowned by the deluge of something bitterer in taste, thicker. In seconds, his legs disappear. The current rises higher, wrapping like vines around his arms. It pools in the palms of his hands and slips between his fingers. Dean panics. He tries to catch some of it, but it’s quicker than sand._

_He pushes out tears with his last exhale before his chest hems in, but even those meld with the rapid thickening of blood surrounding him for miles. Enclosing him. Suffocating him._

**_I can’t torture you more than you torture yourself, Dean Winchester._ **

Dean slams the faucet shut. The water meets at the end of the shower ring and falls as one over Dean’s wilting head. He keeps his hands on the wall for a moment, feeling the slippery white tiles until he convinces himself they’re real. Finally feeling the back of his throat when he breathes, he steps out of the shower.

Upon realizing he left his clothes in his room, he wraps his towel around his waist and ventures down the hall.

He only makes it a few steps when he sees her standing there.

Sam appears a few seconds later from his room to stand beside her. “Right. Yeah, I’ve never really thought about it, to be honest. I’m not big into décor. That’s more my brother’s thing, you know, because he never had his own room growing up.” Dean must be making some pretty big waves on the wooden floorboard, because Sam snaps his head to him. “Ah. Speak of the devil incarnate.”

Dean shifts in his rigid stance as not one, but two sets of eyes zero on his half-naked body. “I’m pretty sure that’s you, Sammy.”

Sam drops his head with a heated glare.

Dean tilts his head forward just slightly with widened eyes.

“Dean—”

 “Sam, who’s this?” he cuts in sharply.

 Sam sighs. “This is Dr. Cameron Dafoe.”

“Oooh, okay, I’m with you.” He takes in the woman’s petite, but busty stature underneath that blonde, Rapunzel-like hair that so modestly covers where her black open V-neck doesn’t, and grins as he extends his arms. “I knew you’d come through for my birthday, Sammy. Gotta say, it’s a little early, but I appreciate the enthusiasm. So, what’s the play? She’s gonna find my room, tie me to my bed, sit down, and undress in front of me? Ask me how it makes me f—”

“ _Dean,”_ Sam growls. _“_ She’s a clinical therapist at Lawrence City Hospital—a _real_ therapist.”

“Nice to meet you, Dean.” Dr. Dafoe lends out her hand with an amused expression. Dean doesn’t accept it. Instead, he uses his right hand to tighten his towel.

“So you _did_ forget my birthday.”

“She’s here to help us,” Sam emphasizes.

Dean scoffs. “Well, Sam, as much as I’d love to sit here and read my latest journal entry, I have _way_ more important things to do.”

“I know,” Sam says, surprising Dean (more than one can be in this situation already). “That’s why she’s staying with us for a few days—to observe and monitor our behavior.”

“What do you mean _monitor_? I’m not a baby, Sam. I may eat, shit, and piss like one, and it’s still hard to sleep through the night without waking up and c—” Dean clears his throat, but the sing in the back bites back at him when he swallows. “Nope. It’s not happening.”

“If I can cut in—”

“You already have, but continue.”

Sam glares at Dean.

“—think of it as a normal day,” Dr. Dafoe continues. “I won’t infringe on anything unless you specifically engage with me. You know, beyond your… fantasies.”

“What is this, _The_ _Stanford Prison Experiment?_ ”

“Dean, that’s not—”

“Is this covered under our health insurance?”

“We don’t  _have_ health insurance, Dean.”

“Well, I know, but we can’t even apply for something basic?” he asks as Dr. Dafoe brandishes a notepad from the right pocket of her free-flowing pants and scribbles something. “Do you _mind?!”_

“Quit changing the subject!” Sam snaps.

“Why are we even discussing this?”

“Because, Dean, we never do! We never discuss  _anything_! Everything’s always encoded in a-a your mom joke or a _sex-driven fantasy._ ”

“What is she gonna help with, Sam?” asks Dean. “Huh? The underlying conflict with our ‘inner’ selves? Give us insight as to why every relationship we’ve ever had with anyone is mentally and emotionally unstable?”

“Well... yeah.”

“Alright, fine.” Dean throws his arms up. “Have your therapy session. I’ll be in my room, watching _Orange is the New Black,_ because _that’s_ self-care.”

Just before he slams the door, Dr. Dafoe scribbles one more thing: “Deflecting. Got it.”

~.~

Evidently, it’s an early sign of a psychotic breakdown to stay hydrated. At least that’s what Dean’s led to believe when he enters the kitchen. Dr. Dafoe’s sitting at the table—of course she is—with her pen in hand, likely drawing a sketch of Dean for the police’s reference after he puts on Huey Lewis and the News.

“Alright fine, go for it.” He shuts the fridge and sets the Corona on the counter with a _clank_. “‘Psychotherapy’ me.”

“You can open that, if you want.”

Dean glares at her. Dr. Dafoe just smiles, which annoys him even more.

“You’re about to take another beer from the fridge,” she says. “It’s a negative coping mechanism developed from ways you’ve coped with stress and trauma in the past. I’d suggest drawing, or writing in a journal.”

Dean takes her up on her generous offer of free will—you know, that thing _he_ fought for—and opens his beer. “My dad wrote in a journal. He’s dead now.”

“Do you—?”

“I swear if you ask me if I want to talk about it, I will throw down.”

“I was just going to ask if you still wanted that Chinese in there.”

Dean glances between her and the fridge and sighs as he stalks off. “Have at it.”

~.~

_The blood’s so thick now, it’s black. His eyes sting. His lungs burn. When he reaches the surface, he’s pulled down by another velvet current. Arms and legs slowing, he sinks deeper as the fire within him sparks a match. He opens his mouth to scream. Silence screams back. His body stiffens, hardens until he becomes a mold of his creation._

_He doesn’t feel his back hit the floor, and the sound of rushing water doesn’t quite reach his ears. His hands tremble. His lungs swell trying to house the avalanche of air filling them. After breaking into a coughing fit, his eyes slowly blink open. A man looms over him, and Dean doesn’t have to wait for his vision to catch up._

_Weakly, he grabs Castiel’s extended hand. He explodes, and his blood showers Dean like a Pollock painting._

_The floor opens up again._

Dean jolts awake clenching his comforter. He closes his eyes and locks his jaw, catching his breath sometime in-between. He glances at the clock on his nightstand. Just after midnight. He’s coated in a thick sheen of sweat, but doesn’t hesitate throwing on an old jersey and pajama pants. He can’t handle running water right now.

He somehow ends up in the kitchen, rummaging through weeks’ old leftovers and Sam’s endless supply of protein shakes. He finds a half-eaten burger from _Biggerson’s,_ still encased in the wrapping, in the very back of the fridge. The smell alone turns him off, but it’s a temporary distraction. With any luck, he’ll develop food poisoning.

He eats as he goes, shuffling his feet along the wood. Pulling out a chair in the library, he turns on a lamp. After tossing the wrapping, he tilts his head back and says, “I know you’re there.”

The light at the end of the table turns on, revealing Dr. Dafoe. “What brings you in here so late at night?”

“Food. Eating. You know, something  _normal_ people do. You’re like a-a vulture. Hovering over me. Waiting until my resolve crumbles and dies so you can feed off my emotions.”

Dr. Dafoe rests her hands on the table. “Did you know vultures can’t actually sense when an animal’s dying?” Something about the way the light stops just beneath her hazel eyes should be unsettling, but it’s far from it. “They may be able to pick up on the smell, but they’re not as intuitive as people think.”

Dean’s not sure what to make of that, so he shrugs. “Yeah, well, intuition’s overrated anyway.”

“What makes you say that?”

A bullet for Cyrus, a stab wound for Lester… a slaughtering for Dustin and Randy. Every murder flashes behind his eyes, and he feels his body stiffening again. “You know,” he says, clenching his fist, “every brave soldier fighting for our freedom.”

“I didn’t peg you for a political man.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he says underneath the heat of his own lamp. Before shutting it off and heading towards the darkness back to his room, he adds, “Let’s keep it that way.”

~.~

That same afternoon, Dean returns to the kitchen, but not to eat. Some local girl got cursed by her witch BFF after sleeping with her boyfriend, and Sam just happens to have the key ingredient to the reversal spell in cup-sized containers in the fridge. When Dean’s threatened to dump them, Sam argues the effectiveness of bay leaves for the bloat after his morning runs. Dean tells him the inflammation’s not in his abdomen, and if he wants to listen to his body, he needs to _stop_ jogging, and start making his way through all the leftovers.

Apparently, Sam’s period is over, because most of the leaves in the containers have turned brown. He picks out only the good ones, opens the cabinets for a bowl, and places them inside. Something sitting on the counter next to the fridge stops him. “What’s this?”

“A coloring book,” Dr. Dafoe replies, because why wouldn’t she be sitting at the kitchen table? “I know you said you’re not an artist, but just in case you change your mind.”

Dean trades dubious looks between the therapist and the book and set of twelve colored pencils. “What am I, a six-year-old at a restaurant?” he scoffs. “We’re reverting to coloring now? What, do the colors I choose represent what I’m feeling?”

“Nope,” she replies confidently. “No psychoanalysis. Just coloring.”

Dean eyes her, and when he doesn’t see a hint of deception on her sickening, optimistic face, mumbles, “Whatever. I’ve gotta get to doing something that  _isn’t_  this.”

~.~

It’s by no means a decapitation, but the scrape of the red pencil along the paper is kind of soothing. If anything, it reminds Dean of lighting a match. Though the paper’s not as rough and fibrous, and a colored pencil won’t do much harm aside from the tip collapsing, it’s got the same motion with every right stroke. And in place of a fire and decomposing body, he’s _creating_ something. This happens to be Hello Kitty’s mermaid fin.

For the flower bra, he reaches across the table for the purple pencil. His arm simultaneously brushes against his Corona. “Shit!” he curses, quickly lifting the bottle. He can tell just by the weight, it’s more than halfway empty. And the coloring page… well, it looks like something that would sell for a quarter of a million.

Taking the sides of his hands, he scrapes off the excess beer, but that only makes it worse. Now it looks like the drawing’s trying to load in dial-up. Plus, his hands are soaked. He turns them over and stares as drops of the diluted red liquid slide down his forearms. _His vision starts to blur and the room goes black. He’s still holding his arms out, but this time to shield himself from the onrushing tidal wave of red in the distance._

“Dean?”

Dean blinks a few times and turns his head. Dr. Dafoe stands beside him.

“Are you okay?”

“‘m fine,” he grumbles. He realizes his arms are still up and he quickly brings them to rest awkwardly on the table. “Just, uh… got the book a little wet.”

“That you did. Looks like you even started a page.”

“Yeah, well, there was nothing on TV.”

“Really?” she asks. “So all those pre-recorded episodes of _I Married a Cowboy: Shanghai_ don’t appeal to you?”

“Sam’s really into cowboys.”

“Right.”

Dean rolls his eyes and sighs. He glances down at the page again. The damage is starting to seep into the actual guide lines, turning it a dark mix of ink black and… “I don’t know, I guess I was just trying to clear my head.”

Dr. Dafoe pulls out the seat across from him. “Of anything in particular?”

 _At first, it doesn’t look any different than the others. But then the wave draws nearer and Dean makes out something. Hands—no, not just hands. Arms. Dozens of them materializing from the bloody water._ “Death.”

“Death is a fairly common fear,” Dr. Dafoe replies. “Have any recent events provoked this thought?”

**_Welcome home, Dean._ **

“Him-he, uh… boyfriend… Micah. Ex.”

Dr. Dafoe nods. It’s hard to read her expression, but Dean figures that’s part of her job. “So, this man—this boyfriend, Micah... is it safe to say you two were intimate while you were together?”

“We were practically the same person.”

“Mmm. Did Micah ever threaten you or talk down to you?”

**_You may be my vessel, but don’t think I can’t replace you. You wouldn’t want someone else to die because you were too weak to contain me, would you?_ **

“Yeah, I’d say so.”

Dr. Dafoe removes her thin-frame glasses and sets them just out of the way of the sudsy flood. “You know, I used to have a girlfriend who did the same to me.”

“Oh you just got ten times hotter.”

Dr. Dafoe rolls her eyes, but fondly. “There’s the Dean Winchester Sam’s told me so much about.”

“Sam talks about me a lot?”

“Yeah,” she says, as if she has a hard time believing Dean doesn’t know that, “I mean, why wouldn’t he? You’re his big brother. He says you’d do anything for him… but you’re not willing to make the same sacrifices for yourself.”

“Did you just break patient confidentiality?”

“I didn’t have to. It’s almost as apparent as your cowboy fetish.”

“Okay, I know,” Dean surrenders. “I feel like I don’t deserve the same quality of life as everyone else. What of it?”

“It makes you vulnerable to people like Micah.” Dr. Dafoe leans forward with a hard-pressed smile. “You probably know the saying we only seek the kind of love we think we deserve. You attract people with evil intent, because that’s what you think you deserve. You may think you’ve got this tall, impenetrable wall that keeps good people far enough from seeing into you, but you give the not so good ones the gate key and live there rent-free.”

Dean points out Dr. Dafoe’s right thumb drawing small patterns into the web of her left hand. “I take it we’re woven from the same cloth.”

Dr. Dafoe scoffs, “I think you just ‘Psychotherapy-ed’ me.”

“What can I say? You’re rubbing off on me… _not_ in a weird way, since that breaks all sorts of patient slash therapist code of conduct.”

Dr. Dafoe’s eyes widen in what can almost be described as worry. “I thought you were into that sort of thing.”

“I don’t know.” Dean shrugs. “I guess I just need to set stricter boundaries for myself. Know my limitations. All that unfortunate, getting-older-and-wiser crap.”

Dr. Dafoe nods. “I like the sound of that.”

“I’m sorry about your girlfriend.”

Waving her left hand to reveal a shiny wedding band, Dr. Dafoe smiles. “Sometimes you have to experience the bad to know what’s good for you.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Dean says, smiling a little, “because if you didn’t know the inner workings of my mind—and I didn’t know some… _interesting_ facts about you—I’d have taken you out for a drink.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” she replies matter-of-factly.

Dean blinks a few times. “Pardon?”

Dr. Dafoe smiles again. “You’ve been paying someone else’s tab for quite some time.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, then fall back down, resting a little too snug on his newly creased forehead. “I thought you said you weren’t intuitive.”

“As a therapist, no,” she says, “but as one human being to another...”

“Well, that’s a session for another time.” Dean ducks his head before lending out his hand. “As much as it burns me to say it: Thanks, doc.”

Dr. Dafoe shakes firmly. “Thank  _you,_ Dean. You two have been some of my more… as you penned it, _interesting_ … patients.”

“We get it—we’re crazy.”

“Crazy is a relative term. I prefer… dangerously lonely.”

Dean holds up a finger and pulls out his cell as he gets an idea. “I’ll change that right now.”

_Hey… how far out are you?_

_ Sent: 12:05am _

Seen at 12:06am

_About two hours. I’m on my way now. –Cas_


End file.
